


First Contact

by ljs



Category: I Spy (1965), The Avengers (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-21
Updated: 2010-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:06:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scotty and Kelly sit in an Embankment garden, waiting for a contact. Scotty reminisces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Contact

The London night is soft, mist-grey, easy to get lost in. Alexander Scott has a strange fondness for those kind of nights – maybe because of his time studying in Oxford. At twilight he’d used to like to walk through Christchurch Meadow to the Thames, listen to the river, think about how far he was from Philadelphia.

He’s still far from Philly, but somehow he feels at home sitting on this Embankment Garden bench in the mist, waiting for some unnamed contact to show up and listening to his partner go drunkenly on and on and _on_ about disrespect _,_ only half of it an act –

"Tell _me_ I’m not good enough to play at Wimbledon," Kelly snorts. For the fifth time.

"All right," Scotty says amiably. "You’re not good enough to play at Wimbledon."

"Hah!" Kelly jabs a finger at Scotty. "Rhetorical question, Stanley. Or rhetorical statement. Something rhetorical." Now he leans in, confidential. "Tennis bums don’t have to know nothin’ about Aristotle, right?"

"You are drunk, my man. And seriously, not good enough for Wimbledon. The All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club knows its stuff." Scotty carefully pushes Kel back on his side of the bench. Got to make the thing look good for whoever might be watching.

He doesn’t know why the English security service just can’t hand over whatever mystery-microfilm in the official confines of Grosvenor Square, but it’s not the Robinson-Scott team’s place to question why they want this drop with some mystery-agent – unless people are shooting at them or something, which would just be bad manners in a green, tidy place like this garden.

Not that _Kelly_ can appreciate tidiness, as anyone who’s ever shared a room with him would attest. Currently he’s sprawled on the bench, pulling at his tie and digging at a nice posy with the heel of his shoe. Oh no, not even for a cover is that okay.

"Man, don’t destroy the cultivated flora," Scotty says urgently. "An Englishman’s gonna come by, see your uncouth ways–"

"Un _couth_ , you say?"

"So very uncouth, and he is gonna smack you back across the Channel to Agincourt."

Kelly fixes him with a beady glittering eye. "I’m not French."

"They won’t _care_ , man."

"Well, we might care just a trifle," says a cool, crisp English voice. Female. And, Scotty realizes,familiar. "But please don’t crush the geraniums."

Then the woman Scotty’s known since those Oxford days appears like some elegant chestnut-haired cat in the mist, and Kelly makes a ‘whoosh’ noise like all the air’s been let out of him – poor susceptible bastard – and Scotty smiles in genuine pleasure. As he gets to his feet: "Emma, it’s been a long time."

"Too long," she says, smiling back.

Scotty’s always had a policy against dating white women, but Emma Knight – no, she got married right after Oxford, Emma _Peel –_ had tested his resolve. They’d used to see each other all the time in the Bodleian, shared pencils, even had tea a time or two at the Mitre. He’s always had a little yen for her, and a much bigger and quite healthy fear. The woman is a force of nature.

He leans forward to kiss her cheek – she smells damn good – then says, in response to a sharp tug on the hem of his suit jacket, "Oh, right, almost forgot. This is Kelly Robinson, who’s not good enough to play at Wimbledon." He just barely has time to avoid the punch to his side. "Kel, this is _Mrs_ Emma Peel."

And Kel’s on his feet, all charm and big teeth like the lying wolf he is. " _Mrs_ Peel. You are, if I may say, the prettiest London sight I’ve seen so far–"

All it takes is one look from Emma’s big brown eyes, and Kel shuts up. "How very kind of you, Mr Robinson," she says sweetly, falsely. "And if I could, I’d stay and hear more of this charming flattery, but I’m meeting someone." She takes a step nearer, smiling at Scotty in a way he finds alluring and utterly terrifying. "But so glad we ran into each other, it’s truly lovely to see you again. If you’ll be in town for a few days, do look me up. Here’s my card, and if you’ll give me yours--"

Oh sweet mother of pearl, she’s the English contact.

She takes another step and she’s _there_ , too close for comfort or scruples. She’s almost as tall as he is, which fact isn’t really important but he makes himself notice because otherwise he’d be forgetting his rules, his name, and his job. She whispers, "The microfilm, Scotty?"

And as he fumbles the small card (with hidden microfilm) out of his pocket, she kisses him right on the mouth. First time, he thinks dazedly. He feels a roaring in his ears in no way attributable to the traffic on the Embankment, feels a rush like the tidal Thames is coming in at flood–

Then the exchange is done, and she’s stepped back like nothing’s happened. "I look forward to hearing from you, Scotty. We’ve a lot to talk about. And lovely to meet you, Mr Robinson."

As quickly and quietly as she’d appeared, she’s gone into the mist.

"Mercy and goodness, what the hell was _that_?" Kel says in a voice of reverent awe.

There’s a rustle in the hedge behind them. "That, my dear sir, was Mrs Peel," says another English voice – male this time, polished, deeply amused. "And please don’t reach for your guns."

Scotty and Kelly turn. The man now brushing one or two broken leaves off his impeccable suit smiles at them. "Never fear – no one’s watching. I dispatched an over-eager and _highly_ bad mannered Russian spectator a few moments ago."

"Steed, _do_ come on," Emma says from somewhere in the mist.

The man touches his bowler hat and then strolls, tightly furled umbrella over his shoulder, in the direction of Emma’s voice.

The London night-mist muffles noise, but it can’t muffle Kel’s "Mervyn, this is another damn country."

"The wonderfulness of it all," Scotty says, and sits back down on the bench.


End file.
